


In All Things

by ClementineStarling



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 00:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17818304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: “Is this what you wanted, little king?” Björn asks, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.





	In All Things

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions underage-voyeurism and Athelstan/Ragnar. Darkish in tone. Nothing I planned on writing but then my brain did the thing and this happened instead of something more sensible like Björn/Halfdan or Björn/Snaefrid or Lagertha/anyone or the thing I actually wanted to write... but so it goes.

Courage, temperance, prudence and justice, four words etched into his mind through endless iteration. Those are the makings of a king, his teachers told him, and they had him recite their meaning, over and over again, lest he forget. But there is only so much you can learn from books, least of all courage, and Alfred is eager to prove himself. Not so much on the battlefield perhaps, that's his brother's domain, but in politics. It's what his grandfather intended for him.

If not humility, he taught him moderation, a virtue as seemly for a Christian king as it is appropriate for Wessex, this land of gentle hills and fertile soil and mild weather that is so unfamiliar with the harshness of winter, the ice and snow and dark driving the Northmen to its shores. It is a kingdom of temperance, he inherited, and Alfred aspires to be a corresponding ruler, fair and just and wise, untouched by the unlawful passions so many men fall prey to.

And yet like his grandfather (and his father too), he cannot help the attraction to what every good Christian should abhor: abandon, unrestraint, the pagans' lust for life – the very opposite of Christian virtues.

Alfred is not a pious man, not overly at least, but what the Northmen stand for is supposed to be contrary to his beliefs. They might not be demons sent from hell to torment them as the priests claim, but they are without doubt dangerous. Even if charity demanded he'd take them in and grant them protection at his court – and it doesn't; the commandments of the Faith don't extend to heathens – prudence would advise against it. And yet he doesn't have the heart to send them away.

Or that is what he tells himself. Deep down he knows of course, that refusing them isn't an option. He is, after all, not only his father's son but also his mother's. He can't afford to make them his enemies, he has enough as it is; he must either keep them as allies or kill them, there is no third choice.

It may be a strange kinship he feels toward his father's captors, or perhaps merely a morbid kind of curiosity that draws him to them. But he isn't the only one. Many of his court are throwing them glances, and some of those glances do not speak of the hostility or apprehension he'd expect, but of the same fascination Alfred nurses in his own heart.

What is that he wants of them, he muses as he watches his unbidden guests sprawling on the benches in his hall, drinking his wine and eating his food. They seem cheerful, unconcerned with their surroundings, but Alfred has already learnt how quick they are to change their mind, grow belligerent and hostile.

He must not trust them.

So why has he not dispatched of them yet?

Is it because secretly he wishes to be like them, a tough, fearless warrior, cold-blooded in the face of death, free to follow his instincts, and unencumbered by Christian rules? Or is it something else he yearns for, a desire too indecent, too vile to even ponder on it?

Alfred forbids himself the thought.

He is a king not a foolish maiden unable to resist the lure of sin.

Unlike his intended who proves incapable of hiding her interest. Alfred is not blind, he has seen how she looks at Björn Ironside, too curious for her own good, but who could blame her? Björn is everything Alfred is not, tall and strong and deadly, and Alfred should be jealous, of his fame and skill, and Elsewith's attention, and he should be outraged by the unseemliness of her behaviour, she is, after all, supposed to become his wife. But for some reason that's not what he feels. –

What he feels is a longing he cannot allow himself.

What he imagines, sometimes, late at night, when everyone sleeps and perhaps even God isn't watching, is to be in Elsewith's place.

Björn wouldn't deny her if she sought him out. Not a pretty, precious thing like Elsewith, soft and sweet and noble of blood, a Saxon princess. He would regard her as a prize, there for the taking. No Northman will refuse such an offer, only a fool would.

Alfred is such a fool. He understands he has to take a wife, sire an heir, it's the duty of a king, but as pretty and pleasant as his future bride is, he has no urge to have her. When he pictures her in bed with Björn, her pale fleshed pressed against his, flushed with the exertion of love making, it's not jealousy he feels, it's envy.

If only he were a maid, inconsequential to the fate of his kingdom, a flower to pluck and discard, he'd not hesitate for a heartbeat to go and ask for it. For large, rough fingers twisting into his hair, tilting his head upwards, for the animal-breath on his face, and the quiver in his guts, the heady concoction of fear and arousal.

It is an impossible dream.

But, like his father, Björn is a shrewd man; not as brilliant as his half-brother Ivar, not one whose insight stems from reason and cold calculation, but someone who's endowed with a natural cunning, an infallible instinct for war and victory. He can smell the weakness on him. He can sense the gazes, catches him watching here and there, with these unsettling, manic eyes he shares with his father and his eldest brother, and Alfred knows he's aware of the unspoken offering. And eventually, one night his wishes catch up with him.

__ _

The corridor is dark and Alfred was careful to leave the feast alone, without guards or advisors, a feat almost impossible to accomplish, but somehow he managed so Björn could follow him, and follow him he does.

He is quiet for such a large man, hardly louder than a shadow as he walks behind him, but Alfred knows he's there. He stops and waits until Björn has stepped up behind him, filling up the darkness like a nightmare. He could kill him now, oh so easily, more easily than ever before, but Alfred trusts his own instinct. Björn Ironside won't stab him in the back or slit his throat like a common murderer, it's not who he is. If he were to kill him, he'd face him, sword in hand.

“What do you want of me?”

His voice is low, the words slightly slurred. He's indulged lavishly in Alfred's wine, but the fact he's drunk doesn't make him less dangerous.

Alfred suppresses a shiver. He doesn't turn around when he says: “You lay with my future wife.”

Silence.

“Don't you deny it?” he asks when Björn doesn't respond.

“It was not a question, was it?” Björn says. “You already know the answer.”

He leans closer now, so close Alfred can smell the wine on him and feel Björn's breath, damp and hot, on his cheek.

“But what about the answer to my question?” he says. “What is it you want of me, little king?”

The insult has him spin around at last. “I'm not–,” he begins but Björn reaches out and puts his index finger over his lips. He's towering over him, too close for decency, pupils dark as spilled ink.

“You see, I already know the answer too.” It's hardly more than a conspiratorial whisper, but there's a softness to his tone that makes Alfred's heart race. “Why else would we be here, in a deserted hallway at this hour, just the two of us?”

If he could think straight, Alfred is sure he would come up with more than one possible reason. Wouldn't it be far more likely for him to pursue a plot to have Björn killed? He's given him enough cause. (And it is not as though Alfred has never thought about it.) But then, he's right, there are no assassins lying in wait. If anyone here should have reason to fear for his life, then it'd be Alfred himself.

I could not escape him, Alfred thinks, he could crush me like a bug if he wanted. Break my neck like a twig.

His heart flutters, but not with fear. He is no coward. He's the King of Wessex and this is an encounter by his own design. He stares right up in those brilliant blue eyes and when Björn finally takes his forefinger away from his mouth, he parts his lips in invitation.

And at last, he gets what he wanted, what he dreamed of, asleep and waking, a fist in his hair, the hardness of Björn's body against his, solid, inescapable like a wall of muscle and bone. His smell is around him now – not just the wine, but the scent of leather and wood-smoke, earth and iron, sweat and musk, and he is drunk on it. His hands clutch at Björn's furs, and then Björn's lips are upon his, surprisingly soft and gentle, not chapped like he imagined, not greedy or cruel. He kisses him – almost – like he would kiss a girl, Alfred assumes, slowly at first, though not without urgency.

Björn's fingers tighten in his hair. It hurts, and Alfred moans into the kiss. There's no turning back now.

__ _

He is magnificent.

Alfred could only guess what he'd find beneath the furs and armour, but he is not disappointed when Björn strips off his clothes in the dim light of his chamber. Smooth skin and defined muscle, fair and strong, he is a sight to behold, and yet he appears to possess no sense of selfconsciousness as he moves about the room. Nudity must seem natural to him.

It isn't to Alfred, who blushes when Björn asks him to follow his example and undress and whose fingers tremble when he opens the fastenings of his robes, but he still doesn't stop until he is as naked as the day he was born. He won't be intimidated by some lowly pagan, he is a king after all, and so he raises his head in defiance while Björn studies his boyish frame.

But once he beckons him over, he comes like a puppet drawn by a string.

__ _

“Is this what you wanted, little king?” Björn asks, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I'm going to be a great king,” Alfred protests, half-heartedly, more out of principle than anything else. It doesn't sound very dignified, half gasp, half moan since Björn's sword-callused finger trails along his shaft at that very moment, up, up to the dripping head.

“One day you will be,” Björn agrees, perhaps only to humour him, but Alfred doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything right now but Björn's touch, the circle his thumb draws over the tip of his cock. Pleasure ripples through him. His breath is coming in pants.

“Still, you didn't answer my question.” Björn takes his hand away, and Alfred can't suppress a small whimper of disappointment. His cock twitches. Clear fluid trickles down the shaft and more is already beading at the small slit on the head.

Björn chuckles and Alfred swallows the plea he has on the tip of his tongue.

“It is what I wanted,” he manages. His voice sounds brittle. It's impossible to miss his desperation. He is so hard it hurts.

“Good,” Björn says.

He smiles as he reaches out to touch him again. This time he traces the seam of his sac, and Alfred escapes another distressed sound.

__ _

The panic is like a blindfold, he can't see, he can't think, he can barely struggle. He wants to call for help but the rough hand over his mouth is stifling his screams.

“Shush, I won't hurt you,” Björn said but the promise rings hollow now that he's on top of him, his thick, hard cock pressing into the soft swell of Alfred's arse.

“Don't fight, little king,” he whispers. “You wanted this, didn't you?”

It is true; Alfred thought so, but now he doesn't. Too stark is the difference between dream and waking. In his imagination, he was in control, he could stop where ever, when ever he wanted. In reality, he is helpless. Björn covers him like a blanket, hot and heavy, pinning him to the mattress with all his weight. Naked skin on naked skin. His scent is filling his nostrils, the whole bed smells like him.

Not long now till his cock will push against his hole, force its way inside him, Alfred is certain of it. His muscles clench with fear. He would beg now if he could but Björn's hand is like iron over his face. He can't do anything but wait for the things to come. As his guts twist into a knot of terror, something snaps inside him. He should be aware that resistance is futile, that he only risks to get hurt worse, but it's an animal impulse Alfred can't master.

He twists under his captor, trying to break free, but unsurprisingly Björn budges as much as a boulder would; all he achieves is to squirm against the mattress, and then something unexpected happens: a sudden flare of pleasure surges through him and Alfred realizes he is still hard.

Mortified, he stops moving.

Ever since Björn grabbed him and spun him around he believed his desire extinguished, his erection gone, for how could he be complicit in his own defilement? He has come to terms with the fact he erred in Björn. He had imagined their encounter as passionate, perhaps rough, more ravishment than rape though, and he misjudged and he's going to pay the price, but he did not reckon with the treachery of his own body.

What does that make him?

He can't think clearly with the blood roaring in his ears and his cock hard and throbbing.

Meanwhile Björn, encouraged by his fading resistance, backs off a little. He pulls Alfred up on all fours and reaches around to wrap his fingers around his erection. Alfred groans as another wave of pleasure threatens to pull him under. He doesn't really want this, does he?

Björn clicks his tongue in satisfaction, apparently pleased with the state he finds him in.

“Quiet, little king,” he whispers as he eases his grip.

When he pulls his hand away from his mouth Alfred gasps for breath. He could cry for help now but Björn's other hand on his prick leaves him boneless, spineless, all he wants to do is thrust up in his grasp, stroke himself and be stroked, and he doesn't even fully register how Björn slips his own cock between his thighs.

Involuntarily Alfred squeezes his legs together and Björn's cock slides, hot and hard, along his balls. Alfred can feel how slick it is, how huge. His teeth dig into his bottom lip. Björn's skin is sweat-damp on his.

“You know,” Björn murmurs, “my father took a lover once, a pretty little thing like you, doe-eyed and gentle. I used to watch them when I was a boy, how he came undone under my father's hands, and on his cock. It was a beautiful sight.”

Alfred's cock pulses between Björn's fingers. “What was his name?” He can scarcely form the words, the air burns in his lungs. He's feeling light-headed.

He knows the answer before Björn says the name.

It's only due to Björn's prompt reaction that he doesn't come right then, to the mental image of Ragnar Lothbrok fucking his own father – he tightens his fingers around the base of his cock, staving off his orgasm.

Alfred makes a low wet sound in the back of his throat, almost like a sob, and he can sense Björn's smile as he drags his lips over his back.

“You look so much like him,” he breathes into his ear and goosebumps spring up on Alfred's skin. It could be as much threat as declaration of love.

“Do I?” he echoes but Björn doesn't respond. He rubs himself languidly between his thighs. His cock seems impossibly large like that.

“I'd like to fuck you,” he says instead of an answer, “see if you'll take a cock as beautifully as he did.”

Alfred's prick jerks in his hand, he is so close now the world is reduced to the feel of Björn's fingers, and this time he doesn't deny him. He strokes him harder, firmer, and Alfred comes, his seed slick and sticky on Björn's hand, but he doesn't seem to mind. He keeps touching him until Alfred begs him to stop, a whimper more than words, and Björn laughs and lets go of him and starts fucking his thighs in earnest.

A taste of what it would be like, Alfred thinks, to be fucked by him, and then at last, there's the hot wetness between his legs, spurt after spurt of spunk, and he slumps down on him, crushing him under his weight.

“I can't breathe,” Alfred says, and he isn't joking but Björn only mumbles sleepily: “Don't complain, little king, or I won't fuck you properly next time.” But then he does roll over and pulls him tight and they fall asleep tangled into each other, almost like lovers.

__ _

In Alfred's dreams, his grandfather looks up from a book. They're in the scriptorium at dusk, it's almost too dark to read, but Ecbert doesn't seem bothered.

“You did love him,” Alfred says. “My father...”

Ecbert nods.

“Not merely platonically,” Alfred says and it isn't a question and he doesn't get an answer either.

Ecbert just smiles a serene little smile.

“Did you ever–,” Alfred begins but he can't bring himself to say it out loud.

Ecberts closes his book. It's a volume of Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics. “You remember what I tried to teach you, dear Alfred?” he says. “Moderation in all things...”

It's not an answer, but it's still good advice.

~


End file.
